


On the Ropes

by WrithingBeneathYou



Series: Ward of Konoha [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, Ward!Madara, Warden!Gai, rehabilitation and redemption arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-19 04:56:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20651555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: After his untimely defeat during the Fourth Shinobi War, Madara is brought back to Konoha as a ward of the village.





	1. The Rise

**Author's Note:**

> _On the Ropes_ is going to be the back story leading up to the events in [Square-Up.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19352353)
> 
> (_Square-Up_ was intended to be a stand alone fic, but I've fallen so deep into the rabbit hole that this AU is now going to be completely fleshed out. lol)

Madara exhales—long and slow—and licks the ash from his lips.

He is the embodiment of goodness, a god forged from the broken remnants of a man by the hammer and anvil of adversity. Bearing this mantle is a burden, but one he has chosen to shoulder for the betterment of them all. There will be harmony when he’s through. Shinobi will lay down their arms and the world will finally come to know peace—a perfect, dream-like utopia of their own making.

No fear.

No pain.

No loved ones lost to the bite of an enemy’s blade.

His divine plan will deliver them all.

It’s an incredible feat, and one he realizes is beyond understanding for those who were indoctrinated from birth to believe that struggle and choice are what makes them human. Evidenced by generations steeped in bloodshed, men have only ever known how to destroy.

He doesn’t hold their ignorance against them. They’ll learn.

Though, it would appear that some are more resistant than others. 

He watches his as-yet-unnamed opponent open the Gate of Death, skin cracking, black on red, and revealing the magma core at his heart. It’s a beautiful unfurling, not unlike the first rumblings of a volcano.

He shouldn’t smile the way he is.

He should be magnanimous in his victory and spare these misguided shinobi the loss of another comrade.

But this one looks strong and Madara wants to _dance_.


	2. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flame dies.

The dance turns out to be exemplary.

Bulging fists and sweat-slick muscles force the very air to give way before the might of Konoha’s great Red Beast. Madara meets him in kind—almost finds his own end a couple of times—and marvels at the sheer power driving this man. When he pronounces Maito Gai the strongest of all Taijutsu users, he’s not exaggerating. It’s a title he does not give lightly.

But, it’s still a prowess that can’t be sustained. The Eight Inner Gates Formation demands a heavy price. It’s amazing he’s lasted as long as he has.

As the Red Beast finally falls, a burst of yellow light sets their dance floor ablaze. When it fades, Hashirama stands in the aftermath of his brother’s jutsu—though the frosty bastard is nowhere in sight—and catches Gai before he hits the ground.

Madara is fundamentally kind. He allows them a moment to collect themselves, lets Hashirama renew the flame in Gai’s heart if only to keep this fight going. After all, it’s the most fun he’s had in two lifetimes.

Hashirama rises to his feet first, reaching down to pull the Beast up along with him. There’s a hurried conversation punctuated by a single nod. Madara notes the alacrity of understanding that comes with extensive battlefield experience.

If he were a lesser man—a man at all and not a Sage in his own right—he would be wary of facing these two together. That slowly tightening twist in his gut would be from apprehension, not anticipation. 

As it is, his blood rises hot and his Rinnegan spin swiftly to capture it all. He will crush them both, there’s no question. But, for now, he allows himself a moment to admire just how glorious they are.

Maito Gai’s stillness amidst the center of a renewed maelstrom.

Hashirama—blind, single-minded Hashirama—standing of a height with Konoha’s beast, back to back and fists upraised in a perfect mirror.

Truly magnificent.

He moistens his lips and settles deeper into a stance of his own.

“Come, show me your power! Make me sweat,” he cries, face split in a wicked grin.

Hashirama drives forward in a frenzy of blows more reminiscent of Tobirama’s style than his own—hammering Madara’s chest with fists and palms instead of the ridiculously extensive reach of his kicks. It’s fitting considering he’s using Tobirama’s pale flesh from the elbow down like macabre gloves, Madara notes.

There’s something beautiful about it.

Poetic, even.

He gracefully spins with the momentum of one of Hashirama’s open hand strikes and allows him the honor of drawing first blood. The Sage’s mantle—_his_ mantle—rips at the seam and an entire sleeve floats free on the draft of his chakra.

In Hashirama’s palm, a fist full of his own reclaimed cells drips through his fingers and into the dirt. Madara laughs at the grimace on his erstwhile friend’s face. It must be rather off-putting to reach for greatness and pull back nothing more than a dram of his own slurry.

Before he has the chance to let loose a truly scathing comment, a burst of flame flares at Hashirama’s back. Gai uses one broad shoulder as a launching point and comes roaring back down with all the might of a dragon. Molten blood pops and crackles in arcs as it spews forth from the cracks in his flesh and dives back below the charred plates of skin. Chakric vapor pours from his mouth like steam.

Eyes wide and grinning, Madara meets him head on.

There’s a mighty crash—loud and percussive like a gong—and an explosion of chakra that fractures the horns on his head. Madara manages to deflect the worst of the strike. He wraps his vice grip around Gai’s wrists and laughs in his face, absolutely delighted by the show of strength.

“Yes! This is battle I deserve,” he crows over the sound of a roaring gale. “Give me more, Beast!”

With that, he drops his weight back, pulling Gai off balance, and sets him flying with a powerful kick to the sternum. The landscape in the distance explodes, rock fragments dotting the sky.

It lets loose a beautiful plume of dust, but Madara has no time to admire the scenery before Hashirama is upon him again. His mokuton is conspicuously absent. A disappointment, but one he brushes aside. All of his plans are coming to fruition. There’s no need to get caught up on trivial matters like a lackluster taijutsu battle from a man he knows can do so much better. 

“You’re losing your edge, Hashirama. Is your brother’s weak constitution catching?” he quips, blocking a knee to the gut.

Hashirama presses his advance and takes several cracks to his corpse façade in order to sidle up close. He frowns sadly.

“If I had Tobirama’s prowess, you would have already fallen, my friend. I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

Barking with laughter, Madara shoves him away and allows him the consolation prize of another handful of cells from the simulacrum of a face on his chest.

“Sorry it’s come to what? The ultimate realization of our dream? The end to all war?” he asks, voice rising to be heard over the incoming whistle of a comet. Between breaths, Gai flashes before him—surrounded by the corona of a great star—and the conversation dies. 

Madara enthusiastically meets him and redirects the brunt of the impact into the ground. A crater forms, deepening with each blow until Gai manages to get a hold of Madara’s waistband and yank him into the hot press of his arms.

It’s been decades since Madara has had the pleasure of fire bright chakra pulsing in time with his own and a hard body at his back, a taste he recalls he’s quite fond of.

“Your strength is uncanny,” he announces, leaning his head back to look Gai in the eye, close enough to kiss, “but, there’s a time and a place for these sorts of things.” It’s almost endearing the way Gai’s brow furrows and his lips press into a tight line.

“It’s unseemly to jest when lives are at stake,” he intones gravely, the embers of his eyes flaring so brightly that Madara has to squint.

And here he thought at least this great warrior could meet him as equals without the proselytizing that Hashirama so favors. Odd how none of his dance partners can ever let go and enjoy the glorious ebb and flow for its own merit. Madara snorts and blasts his chakra so powerfully between them that he can feel the give of flesh and the warm rush of blood at his back. Still, Gai remains unyielding.

Impressive.

It’s then that Hashirama returns in a burst of leaves. One broad hand hikes up Madara’s mantle and settles on the bare skin of his stomach. There’s the crackle of electricity and a slight burn, then nothing.

They both still, watching the other.

Then Madara lets loose a bark of laughter.

“Is that it? Is this all you can give me? I’m disappointed!”

What a farce the illustrious Senju clan head has become. He should have stayed dead. At least then his memory would live on as a figure of reverence instead of this washed up shadow of a shinobi. Madara brings a hand down and strokes the muscle of Gai’s thigh where it’s moored between his own, abruptly driving a chakra rod straight through it. He grins at the sensation and forces the rod’s trajectory to curve along its path towards the ground, impaling muscle and bone alike.

The roar of pain is near deafening.

Ears ringing, Madara breaks free from Gai’s loosened hold and lashes out in a low spinning kick to take out Hashirama at the ankles. He falls with a resounding clatter, loud enough to be heard over the buzz of tinnitus. 

As if he could be contained, overpowered by one dying man and the reborn shade of another. It’s preposterous and he says as much. Though, such a brazen move should be rewarded, he thinks.

Madara cards his fingers through the red shock of Gai’s hair, then tempers the softness with a knee to the face. Blood spurts across his mantle, thick and cloying. It’s interesting to see this master of the Eight Inner Gates Formation finally fold and so very fitting that he takes a knee in what looks to be a simulacrum of fealty. 

“Well fought, Beast,” he commends with one last chiding pat. “I haven’t been this excited since…well,” he looks down to Hashirama’s sprawled form and the unrestrained joy in his voice fades, “him.”

Hashirama struggles to pull his body away with the lithe strength of Tobirama’s arms, sliding in the dirt and raising small mounds to either side of his hips. His sandaled feet stay behind where Madara bisected them from his legs.

“Your weakness disgusts me, Hashirama,” Madara scoffs as he pulls away from Gai and absently kicks the disembodied feet from his path. There’s a look of quiet sorrow in Hashirama’s downturned lips, a glossiness to his eyes that has Madara’s ire rising as he bears down.

“Even so, I’m sorry for what I must do,” Hashirama murmurs, not bothering to rise or defend himself. That in and of itself should have been a warning, but the adrenaline is running high and Madara’s heart pounds out a rhythm that can’t be denied. He has no patience for whatever games Hashirama wants to play.

“I only hope that this time things will be different. I hope you’ll come to understand that peace is something to be fought for and won alongside your precious people. I can’t be with you on this journey, but it was good to see you again, old friend. Goodbye, Madara.”

Hashirama smiles softly and brings his brother’s fingers up into a series of hand signs.

Rat, dog, horse, snake.

Bird, boar, dragon, ox.

The red tattoos along his wrists begin to lengthen and grow into a complex arrangement of seal work. They flow into the air like a suiton jutsu, hovering for a moment before they devour the light.

The world around them stills, goes silent.

Gai’s blood-mist breath hangs stationary.

Their distant audience stands rapt at unnatural attention.

Madara blinks slowly and watches the seal gain mass until it breaks with a heartbeat of its own, one he can feel pulsing in his gut. 

Suddenly, the world starts back up.

Gasping, he tears at his mantle and flings it to the ground, staring at his bare stomach in horror. Hashirama’s lackluster attack wasn’t impotent, it was purposeful—planting a seed. The mirror image of Uzumaki Naruto’s Eight Trigrams Seal sears its way to the surface of his skin, crackling and popping where raw flesh peaks out. As he stares—transfixed in horror—the seal shifts three times again, bringing up sixty-four trigrams, all piled one atop of the next. 

“No. No!” he screams, clutching at the lines of fuinjutsu creeping up his chest. His nails pull up skin and blood, but no matter how he digs into himself, the seal taunts him with its artful swirls and late autumn chakra.

“I will not be brought down by that albino shit stain!”

Tobirama’s sharp amusement rings out in his mind as if the thrice-cursed Senju bastard is beneath him again.

Madara’s eyesight blurs with the staccato beat of ten alien hearts slamming against his own. He falls to his knees, puking up blood and bile alike. “No,” he continues to repeat like a mantra, gnashing his teeth as if he were a tailed beast himself. But, Tobirama’s parting gift is nothing if not brutally efficient. With a great heave of chakra, the tailed beasts buried deep within him burst forth from his back and arc across the desert. Their star-like coronas devour the sky in a shifting panoply of color.

Madara doesn’t watch. He can’t. The pain is unimaginable and sets him screaming silently into his cupped palms. He digs furrows into his own face and slams himself into the dirt, kicking out without purpose in an attempt to mitigate the agony. Anything to lessen the hollow gorge in his chest.

He thinks he feels a cool palm against his forehead—the soothing caress of Iryo ninjutsu. That can’t be, though. These insipid worms wouldn’t be so foolish as to heal him. And he’s right in a way. The technique feels as if it’s drawing something out of him even as it knits his tissues back together, returning Hashirama’s flesh to where it belongs.

The queer sensation moves into his chest, his neck…his eyes. Slowly, his visual prowess shifts and begins to draw on his chakra reserves with the searing pull of the Mangekyou Sharingan.

The Senju cells are gone and the Rinnegan along with them. All of his painstaking planning has been for naught. Peace is once again an impossibility.

Madara blinks rapidly to clear whatever it is that makes his hands blur—tears or blood, he can’t tell.

Hashirama’s voice washes over him, clear even over the roar of bjuu in the distance.

“Rest, Madara.”

And, as if he was only waiting for permission, he does.

The world goes black, leaving only a single afterimage.

A boyish smile—

and an upraised skipping stone.

**Author's Note:**

> Short intro chapter, but this is likely going to turn into a novella. XD


End file.
